Fire in their Eyes
by ramblingonandon
Summary: A short extension at the end of season 3 episode 8. Since some things needed to be voiced and some realizations to be made.


**A/N: This short piece is a coda to my previous work 'the chill in my bones.' It's especially for ****MJVictoria**** who asked for it in the first place; I started working on it the day I read your review and for ****enjoyedit**** who also wanted to see this 'later' scene. The amazing lyrics at shaped the scene, they belong to those who wrote them and voiced them only borrowing here for inspiration.**

**I'm sorry it took me this long to get this one done. **

**I don't think it covers everything between these two characters but I tried. And maybe it's not as emotional as the previous one but there are different dynamics here, so…. in the words of Sherlock to grieving John, "it is what it is," **

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing recognizable here nor making any money.**

**Happy reading. **

* * *

'_**Cause they've taken too much hits**_

_**Taking blow by blow**_

_**Now light a match, stand back, **_

_**Watch them explode. **_

_**-The Script [Superheroes] **_

* * *

He cannot believe it, he cannot comprehend it. Of all the most foolish, utterly ridiculous things that Aramis has done this is the worst. The king is dying and that man has risked the queen's life, her very reputation, he has risked the Dauphin's claim to the throne; risked the future of the country.

Jaw clenching shut and just shy of grinding his teeth, Treville stops in his pacing. The morning light from the window at his side proves another day added to the tentative peace, a few more hours of delaying the inevitable; of an army marching on the palace, a city on the brink of war, people caught up in the haze of frenzy that will leave neither friend nor foe unharmed.

His hand tightens where it clasps his other wrist behind his back.

The king is dying.

He ignores the sting in his eyes.

The king is dying and the queen's name slandered.

He can feel the vein in his forehead swell and thump because Aramis –

Turning on his heels the Minister walks again to his desk and kicks his chair back. There is something deliciously satisfactory in its screech against the floor and the thump as it hits the shelf behind it.

The knock on his door adds gunpowder to the already brimming keg in his chest.

"Come in," he calls out.

And there is the man, the Musketeer who betrayed his king, who endangered the throne he has promised to serve and risked the country he has sworn loyalty to. Planting his fists onto the table before him Treville leans on them lest he strikes out.

He glares at the man who stands at ease with his hat in his hand, feet apart and chin raised just a bit.

It is enough.

It has always been enough to ignite the anger flooding in his veins because that slight tilt of the chin tells him that going ahead he would not be given ground. Has always been enough of a signal that behind the calm façade he is facing there is a blaze to match his own.

Treville can feel the blunt edges of his nails digging into his skin as leans forwards.

"Do you realize what you have done?" he asks.

"My intentions –"

"Your intentions are irrelevant!" he cuts him off, "A soldier should never play at politics Aramis,"

"Isn't that what you're doing?"

And there is that blaze, scorching and direct and precise; shooting the ball of hard truth exactly into the heart of the matter. He feels half a smirk pull at his lips because it burns, it bloody sears and hasn't this what M'lady has pointed out to him? That he spoke like a true politician? Will he be ordering kills now for his own benefit in the name of France? With Louis now dying and the queen's name slandered will that be how people see him now? Will that be expected of him from the nobles? Will he do that?

"Get out!" he snaps.

"Listen –"

"OUT!"

Aramis doesn't flinch, the dark gaze doesn't falter.

And yet Treville is not surprised when it does drop. Because this, the seething anger and burning fury, sincere obedience and open defiance, the inherent trust and embedded suspicion, it is a mesh of rank and familiarity entirely their own. The stretch and slack of it understood by both of them on some instinctual level.

Aramis turns around and walks away.

And pushing away from the table Treville walks to the window.

Another day, another chance to set things right before the chaos is upon them and yet nothing is going as it should. The people are opposing the queen when she hasn't even taken up the regency, how is he supposed to keep her in power before the Dauphin can reach maturity? And Louis is dying, after all these years of protecting that child he can do nothing against this enemy that has struck the king.

And what of the enemy ready to swoop in at first chance? War has thinned the numbers of those protecting the crown; there are spies and enemies everywhere. Treville's grasp on the hilt of his sword at his side tightens but the familiar gesture holds no solace, for this is a different battlefield all together. He needs people he can trust.

Aramis.

The ache of that bloody nose the younger man gave him years ago ghosts under his fingers as he pinches the bridge of it and the Minister growls.

Because he cannot deny that he should have at least listened to the other man if only because he knows that Aramis would have paid attention during his captivity. Whatever information their enemies have ever hoped to collect by ever taking that man captive have always ended up with Aramis gleaning more knowledge than giving it.

Biting back a curse Treville turns around; marches out of his office and into the corridor beyond to find someone so that he can summon Aramis back.

Finding the man himself standing in the outer corridor is unexpected.

His steps slow down as he watches Aramis lean against the wall of one of the arches framing the courtyard beyond. And that dwindling rage reignites in his gut. He hurries forward because even after all this time, even after all this mess where did this man get the audacity to linger here to steal a glance at the queen and the Dauphin?

Grabbing the Musketeer by the shoulder he swings him around.

"How could you be this stupid?" it leaves him in a hiss, "have you lost all capacity of thought Aramis?"

"What? Captain?" Aramis squints at him.

And Treville feels the hair on the back of his neck rise. Because the times he had seen Aramis confused had been some of the worst situations that they had faced.

The Musketeer blinks, swallows and shakes his head.

"My apologies Minister I was just leaving," he says.

Yet it's that little slip up of his title; that fleeting confusion the man before him had so easily caught and controlled that has Treville reaching out. His grip is far gentler if still as firm when he stops the younger man from leaving.

"We need to talk," he answers the eyebrows that rise, "not here,"

Aramis nods, dips his head slightly in a after-you gesture and Treville turns away.

And turns around again just in time when the man sways a step behind him. It is reflexes honed over a lifetime of being a soldier that have him grabbing Aramis by the elbows as the man trips over his own feet. Fear sparks his senses, pricks over his skin as his heart picks up pace at this uncharacteristic clumsiness from his Musketeer. His fingers dig deeper into the leather of Aramis' sleeves.

The younger man clutches the front of his robes and holds on, head bowing for the brim of his hat to hide his face but the slow measured breaths are audible. And Treville wonders how many times he had held this lad so and how long had it taken for the younger one to finally learn to not push him away. As the grasp on his robe front tightens so does his hold onto the soldier he had claimed as his own years ago.

"Illness or injury?" he asks quietly.

"Wounded,"

"Bleeding?"

"No,"

"Infected?"

"No,"

So he waits.

Casts a thankful look around to make sure that they are still alone and holds steady the weight that is leaning into him. It isn't long before the Musketeer releases his grasp and with a gentle pat to the Minister's front he steps back from the man. But Treville's hands linger and he can feel the pull of his brows coming together in a frown because under the shade of the hat the man before him looks too pale.

Treville wonders if it is a recent development or if he is noticing it just now.

Aramis swipes the hat from his head and presses it to his chest, his smile a tight pull on the lips.

"Shall we Minister?" he asks.

But it is the warm tone around the reserved words that slightly ease the worry in his gut.

Treville nods and turns around.

He leads them back to his office. Closing the door after the Musketeer he motions for him to sit and walks over to the shelves by the wall. Tucked behind the records and treaties and plans is the breakfast trey he hadn't touched that morning. Pouring a cup of water from it he heads back to the man in his visitor's chair.

Aramis glances at the offering.

"Something stronger would've been nice," he says.

Treville raises a brow; and stomps down a smirk when the younger man grins and takes the cup. He doesn't miss the way his Musketeer keeps his left arm close to his front, can't ignore the barely there stiffness that he wouldn't have been able to notice if he hadn't known this man so well. And it dawns in him that the rescue had taken an entire extra day; that the Musketeers had only returned this afternoon when they should have made it back yesterday.

The soft clink of the cup on the table pulls his thoughts straight.

"Report," he says.

Wonders why he didn't ask for it before.

"The man coming out to lead me to the meeting was new. I was wary but soon outnumbered. Burned the queen's letter before Grimaud could get his hands on it," Aramis looks up at him, the corners of his eyes pinching slightly, "he was very keen on saving it,"

"Likely to use it to frame the queen for treason,"

"They will try to become the Dauphin's guardians," Aramis says and Treville cannot ignore the way the younger man pales further, "Gaston will make sure the Dauphin does not reach maturity,"

"The Dauphin is protected Aramis,"

"But we cannot be sure Minister. Because what I don't understand is how did Grimaud know about this negotiation? Was it the Spanish who betrayed us or someone here?"

Hooking back the other visitor's chair with his foot Treville sits down; tries his best to ignore the shiver the words had sent up and down his spine. Spies at the palace was nothing new but at the time when it was clear that the king was dying and Dauphin too young, these channels of smuggled secrets could end in disaster.

"The Red Guard," he says, "they are everywhere inside these walls. If I could I would disband them,"

"Don't," the word is as quick as the face that turns to him, "be cautious of them always, but don't disband them. There may still be some good men left in there and when the time comes you would know them from the bad."

"I cannot risk enemies within the palace,"

"So you will be giving them a reason to resent its dwellers?" Aramis shakes his head but stops abruptly, right hand reaching up to press against the side of his head as he clenches his eyes shut, "he had ten men armed with muskets Minister, sixteen pistols and a supply of better rations than our soldiers have at the front lines. He can offer men a price for their loyalty; don't give them a reason to consider it."

And what of those who Grimaud had already bought Treville wonders. But his thought is silenced before he can voice it, and pressing his elbows to his knees he leans forward to study the younger man before him. The shadows pooling under the closed eyes are too dark and the pale face looks haggard. It's not the first time he has seen Aramis brought low, neither is it the lowest this Musketeer has been but it still doesn't stop that odd tightening in his gut.

Mend, prepare, protect.

Reaching out he taps Aramis on the knee with a fingertip, a smile pulling at his lips as the bleary eyes meet his gaze.

"And did you check the quality of those rations yourself?" he asks half in jest.

"Nice warm blankets," Aramis smirks, "better than we could ever afford even before this war started,"

"Glad to know you all had a comfortable night," Treville keeps his tone dry even as he nods towards the left arm the younger man is keeping close, "what happened?"

"Got shot,"

Treville raises a brow.

"Had to be burned close,"

And that tells him everything he needs to know. Because if Aramis was willing to go to that extent to stop a bleeding it must have been a desperate situation, the man wasn't in favor of procedures adding more damage to an already hurt body. Treville blinks against the sting in his eyes. A bitter heat prickles down his nose and he clenches his jaw shut against the hard lump in his throat. This man before him was the last of those who had been at the start of his journey as the Captain of His Majesty's elite guards, the only one remaining from the beginning of the Musketeers; would he see this one to his grave too?

He was already losing one child he had watched over.

Will he see the end of this lad too? The one he had handpicked over a decade ago?

"I was following orders with those letters, just to be clear." Aramis says, "Not the kings. Or yours, but orders still,"

And Treville smirks.

"A political answer for a soldier," he says.

"I learned from the best," there is a hint of challenge there.

Blue eyes narrow.

But denial refuses to come.

Treville nods and sits back.

Wonders if this is how a father feels when he realizes his son is suddenly the same height as him; surprised, relieved, aged and proud; so damn proud.

Something must have shown on his face because Aramis raises a brow and Treville shakes his head.

"The slander to queen's name was not your fault," he allows.

Because whatever those pamphlets may imply it was not Aramis' mistake that had them printed and distributed, it was his own. His advice to the queen had been twisted into this attack. Aramis hadn't let the queen's weakness get in Grimaud's hands.

"I know it wasn't," Aramis says.

It's quiet, understanding; there is no hint of arrogance there even if it explains nothing as to why the other man had backed down earlier.

Aramis shrugs a shoulder at the questioning look he levels at the younger man.

"You're grieving," says the Musketeer.

"I am not,"

Brown eyes hold his gaze. The silence stretches between them and that hot sting to his gaze threatens to blur his vision. Treville looks away. Bites the inside of his lip when the younger man sits forward and grasps his knee and does not let go. He bites back a growl because he does not need this. He is not grieving; he has lost men before. Brave, loyal, honorable men – and he had mourned them each. This is nothing new; he has lost a king before too. He does not need this.

Aramis does not pull away, the grasp remains as a reminder that all is not lost, as a tether that keeps him from being swept away in the worry and fear of what is to come.

"You have not failed him," says Aramis.

And he looks back to the younger man so fast, his vision swims.

"Neither the late king nor this one," the Musketeer ads, "and you will not fail the next one,"

Right into the heart of the matter; Treville feels the corner of his lips twitch up.

Aramis nods and takes to his feet, picks up his hat from the table and steps away before he can form words past the rock lodged in his throat. The Minister stands and if the ground feels a little steadier under his feet for the first time in a while he refuses to acknowledge it.

"But you were right," Aramis says, "his majesty should have been informed,"

"You asked the queen to do so," it is not a question.

Aramis neither confirms nor denies and he knows that the younger man never will. Treville glances towards the bulge under the left sleeve that he is still marveling that he had missed noticing the first time around.

"I assume the man responsible for this is no longer breathing?" he asks instead.

"It's taken care of,"

There something there in the too quick smile that Treville doesn't like but he can tell it's another matter he will not know about. His brows pull in a frown because what could be there for Aramis to hide in that matter?

"I will never do anything that would harm the queen or the Dauphin," Aramis says, "I know you don't trust me –"

"I do trust you,"

Aramis blinks once, twice, his right hand clutching his hat falls to the side.

Treville smirks.

"When I don't trust you to follow orders I trust your judgment,"

"I – that is –"

Treville levels a bland look at his Musketeer and nods to the door.

"See that you get some rest," he says.

Aramis grins. Pressing his hat over his heart he offers a bow.

"See that you do as well; Captain," he turns and walks away.

The smile on his face pulls before he can check it and Treville shakes his head. Deference, loyalty and familiarity offered in the title that wasn't a mistake this time around from his Musketeer.

Watching the open door he cannot refuse the touch of awe that unfurls in his chest. Cannot imagine to clearly understand how after over a decade of blood sweat and tears; after betrayals, disobediences and sacrifices the two of them still have common ground to stand on as Captain and Musketeer.

The first time he had met that dark gaze on the battlefield comes to his mind; the wary trust in those guarded eyes that had regarded his offer, the months it took for that distrust to ebb until the day it wasn't there anymore flashes clear through his memory.

Alone now and no longer the Captain of the regiment he can confess in his heart that that he may have been harder on this younger man in some ways and given him too much leeway in others. Has to ask himself what it was that he was preparing this man for and why?

Without warning his thoughts turn to the Musketeer questioning him about Savoy, to Aramis shooting down Marsac after; to the confession about the queen and the younger man's departure it brought. He remembers the Musketeer's worry over a baby king whose life and death would have been a political game, he sees Aramis falling on a bomb to save every life nearby but his own.

Reckless, passionate and brimming with faults.

But trying, always actively trying to make it better be it the mess of his mistakes or simply the situation he is in.

Treville sits down abruptly. Putting his elbow on the desk he drops his head in his hand. Because isn't that why he had started the Musketeers regiment? Isn't that why he had taken up this position as a Minister? Wasn't all his life an effort to make it better?

Sitting back in the chair Treville looks to the door and shakes his head slowly. An odd assurance warms the spot between his lungs.

The torch will pass on.

* * *

_**When you've been fighting for it all your life,**_

_**When you've been struggling to make things right,**_

_**That's how a superhero learns to fly**_

_**-The Script [Superheroes] **_

* * *

**END**


End file.
